


Breaking Down

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Angst, another vera centric fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 05:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9868961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Driving home after the fire that consumed a good portion of Wentworth, Vera reflects, but it's a haunted reflection. One that can only be defined as breaking down.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This specific fic takes place in between seasons three and four: a little behind the scenes since so much time lapses between these seasons in terms of where everyone stands. My heart aches for Vera. It really does.

Thick, grey clouds hang heavier than a curtain in the gloomy sky. Rain mercilessly pelts the windshield. The wipers make a rhythmic sound, filtered out as background noise. There's neither lightning nor thunder, but Vera Bennett reckons that the weather is God's wrath incarnate.

The air, itself, possesses a certain thickness that makes it difficult to breathe. She feels claustrophobic within her car, recalling the news reports of how vehicle accidents are on the rise. It contributes to this paranoia that gnaws at the back of her head. It's a presence as suffocating as her mother.

Her _mother_.

The thought, alone, awakens something within the deputy governor. Vera tightens her grip on the steering wheel. Her knuckles bleach bone white, the vise-like tension cutting into her aching joints. The endless road curves up ahead and it brings her closer to _somewhere_.

Vera presses her foot down onto the gas pedal. The motor purrs despite the steady blanket of rain. A stiffness tears into her jaw. Her shoulders shoot up, practically touching her earlobes. Music comforts her little; she switches the radio off and listens to nature's fury.  
She doesn't know where she's going (home) or why she's going ( _take me home_ ; this is what she wants to say to someone).

Vera's bottom lip trembles. She shakes. Feels trapped within her uniform, trapped within her pathetic, mousy, little life.

At the chaos her mind makes, she gasps. She's in no condition to drive. Knows a mile or two further would just result in a crash. The stress of Wentworth has caught up with her, has begun to strip the woman she used to be. She's been fractured and re-fractured.

Molded is the word she searches for.

Distraught, she pulls over and parks on the side of the road. Considers calling Joan, but what would a woman forged of steel tell her? Certainly not a warm embrace accompanied by a ' there, there Vera. ' Regardless, her thumb lingers on the contact that flickers a number she's memorized by heart. The phone lands on the passenger's seat face down. She hears Ferguson in her head: ' Straighten your spine, Vera. '

Getting out of the vehicle, the keys remain thrust into the ignition, a cat charm dangling lifelessly. It had been a souvenir from the mall. She found the character cute.

The door slams behind her, loud and jarring. Dark circles linger underneath her sea blue eyes. Small heels drag across the slick pavement and onto the grass. She hears the telltale chant of ' vinegar tits, vinegar tits ' in her head. This is not who she is.

Staggering, Vera Bennett is more dead than alive. The rigidity from her tight bun pulls at her scalp, her skin. Falling onto her knees, she looks to the sky. They will bruise. She's sure of it.

Vera feels the rain against her skin for the sake of feeling something.

She screams.

It's full of anguish and suffering. A thousand proverbial knives tear into her throat. It always hurts. This turns into a muted sob. She shields her face. Struggles to breathe. Digs the heels of her palms into her swollen, itchy eyes.

And then she remembers.

Her mother is dead.

Joan is incarcerated, now a prisoner of her own mind.

Her foundation's crumbled. She wishes she knew who she was. Who she should be, but it's as though she's collapsed into herself, alone and aching.

 

This is not what she wanted and it hurts, it hurts, it _hurts_.

 


End file.
